The Wake

Mourners swarmed around one another enjoying the wake of Michael Penny, late of Corktown Detroit. Dressed like Jackdaws and chattering noisily, Moira had never seen so many people attend a wake, but Pops had made friends over the years, and none of them had forgotten him.
There were tears and laughter from the family, and laughter and drinking from the mourners, tea mostly but also plenty of stout, and the table of food had been stripped nearly bare. An hour ago they'd collected respectfully in the parlour, to stand beside the open coffin and say their goodbyes, while the Priest began the vigil with prayers and blessings.
Now they stood plate in hand, piled high with sandwiches and fruit cake, greeting one another with a polite peck on the cheek or a strong handshake. She heard snatches of conversations, as she circulated around the room, looking for her brother Jess,
"and then he went after him with pliers." 
"they lived over at, where was that Pat?"
"did you see her? No shame that one."
"They took the whole thing out."
She noticed an old man alone in the parlour, sat beside the coffin in Pops favourite soft armchair. A glass of whiskey in one hand balanced on his knee, eyes closed, head lent back, his thin Brylcreemed hair resting on the antimacassar.
"Hello?" She didn't recgnise him, and went into the room, giving a quick glance at the painted face of Pops, which glowed in the sheen of light reflected from the silk embrace of the coffin. The stranger opened his grey watery eyes and smiled sorrowfully at her.
"You'll be Moira."
"I am." He held out a bony hand and she took it, allow him to hold her there while he spoke.
"I came over with your Grandfather. On the boat. A terrible crossing, the sea was never still. Ah we lost each other for a while, but God's providence brought us back together." He creased his lined face in a smile, and cast a look at the body in the coffin. Then pulled her closer and whispered. "I knew him when his name was Dooley." Letting go her hand, he gave a wink, took a sip of the whiskey and sank back, closing his eyes, lost in memory.
Moira scuttled away disconcerted, and heard her father's voice calling for her. She saw him gesturing towards the scullery, and with an 'excuse me and 'passing through', pushed her way through the scrum of people. Jess was already there, his cheeks flushed from sipping illicitly at the bottom of stout glasses he was supposed to be washing out.
Father closed the door, and drew both of them into his bear-like body with a tight embrace. Moira smelt the washing powder in his knitted v-necked tank top. He released them and took two items off the shelf.
"There's something Pops wanted each of you to have when he passed." To Jess there was a leather fob case, with a silver pocket watch.
"He bought that the day your Uncle Connor was born." His Father explained. Connor, Michael's first born had died of measles when he was 8 years old, and every male born thereafter, carried his name in the middle of their own. 
To Moira he passed an old wooden box, the side broken and loose, held together by a brown belt, creased and lined along the leather. Moira felt a small brass key on the side, it turned a little and a few discordant notes played. 
"Open it." Her Father encouraged, seeing her disappointment at such a wretched heirloom. She undid the buckle and the hinges opened awkwardly. Inside was a squat bundle of hessian, tied with old white string, and a tatty prayer card with a portrait of The Holy Mother holding Jesus.
"Dad brought this box with him on the boat. This," He reverently lifted out the hessian bag, "Has the soil from beneath his last footprint on Ireland. He dug it up, twisted it in this little bag and kept it with him always. And this," He took the soft rectangle of card, "Was the prayer he said, and the card he kissed every minute that he thought the boat was going to sink." He kissed the card and put it back into the box. "And now they're yours." 

(For Part One see 'Madigan')